


Purpose

by bluefallenfandomwallflowers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean Winchester, Bottoming from the Top, Emotional, Love, M/M, Purpose, Top Castiel, delicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 02:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14154969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluefallenfandomwallflowers/pseuds/bluefallenfandomwallflowers
Summary: “I don’t want to be empty anymore,” Dean whispers, a different variation of those same fucking words he still has to pluck up the courage to say, to write, to sing…Castiel looks up at him with that shocking gaze that never fails to make his heart race. His fingers clench at Dean’s hips, head tilting against the pillow. Reverently, with the faintest unbidden desire, Castiel says, “Then let me in.”





	Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little porn to unplug my writer’s block.
> 
> Hopefully?

There’s purpose in everything.

Every action, every word, every thought.

Just like how Castiel’s fingers have purpose as they tip toe their way down Dean’s spine and smooth down, down, down… until their both shuddering.

And how his current actions are going to lead to Dean being opened up, left begging for fulfillment, which they both know Castiel will offer.

How Castiel’s lips suck light bruises behind Dean’s ear, on the back of his neck, and he says, “I love you.”

There’s purpose, purpose embedded within Castiel’s grace, his heart, and every action, along with every word, and it all _means_ something so incredibly precious.

He’s never said these words to anyone else, never touched anyone in such an intimate way, and when the cogs in Dean’s mind really start spinning, he thinks, _and he never will_. It forces a guttural moan from deep inside him, and it’s like Castiel is pushing every noise out from him with those lithe fingers. Meant for wielding an angel blade, for healing, for war, not for someone like Dean.

“Your self-deprecation is tangible,” Castiel says gently, and his skin whispers over Dean’s as he moves across his body, dragging his other hand from the bed to tilt Dean’s head to the side.

He can tell Castiel is staring into his soul, and Dean’s eyes aren’t even open.

But when they _do_ open, he wants to sob, because it can’t be true. He’s not worthy of this. Of such a beautiful creature, woven delicately, an operative machine that shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t make _Dean_ feel this way.

And yet, here Castiel is, working three fingers inside of him, eyes bold as they look and look and look.

_Relentless,_ Dean thinks, and yeah, there’s purpose in that thought, because even when he leaves and he pushes Castiel away and sees the clear end of the bottle, Castiel puts up with his bullshit and presses even closer.

“Perhaps you should stop thinking,” Castiel offers.

Oh boy, if he could.

But his thoughts are on a constant cycle of sarcastic comments and deprecating truth circling through the lies. He can’t distinguish his own misery from reality, but that’s been a habit for over half of his life, and stopping anytime soon would mean giving in to… to freedom in loving Castiel.

Freedom he’ll never afford.

Dean decides that not talking would be a better solution than listening to what Castiel has to say about him and his supposedly beautiful soul. So he turns as much as he can until Castiel sighs and rises a tad bit, fingers still tucked inside of him.

It’s a strange sensation as they twist around, and Dean sucks in a breath. “Shit.”

Castiel smiles, seemingly happy that he now has full access to Dean’s lips, and he doesn’t waste time. He takes full advantage, and Dean loves him for it.

After a moment or two of making out slowly, the pressure inside each of them has started to churn, the intensity of the wait, of the suspense, catching up to them. Castiel’s fingers suddenly slide deeper, and what a little _shit_ , Dean is caught off guard when they jam softly against his prostate.

“Oh-oh fuck,” he breathes, gripping Castiel’s hair, swallowing.

“Hmm?” Castiel definitely has found his purpose in this antagonizing little game, and he bites Dean’s left nipple as he wisps over and over that sweet spot inside him, Dean’s dick jolting with each touch.

When Dean can’t stand it anymore, on the verge of kicking Castiel away, it lets up and those beautiful fingers leave him.

He’s all too familiar with this empty feeling, from all the moments tucked in the corner of the shower or bent awkwardly on memory foam, his fingers too fucking stubby, too short, and even if he managed to brush his prostate, it wasn’t _this_.

It wasn’t Castiel, covered in a sheen of sweat, hair messy, staring at Dean with something so particularly dangerous in that gaze, something so secretive, so loyal and untamed… It’s not Castiel inside of him, punching the air out of his lungs, and there’s no ragged voice saying dirty things that shouldn’t ever grace an angel’s lips or love drenched words that make tears run down his cheeks and feel something so precious rise within him.

It explains the purpose in which Dean drags Castiel onto his back and straddles his waist.

“I don’t want to be empty anymore,” Dean whispers, a different variation of those same fucking words he still has to pluck up the courage to say, to write, to sing…

Castiel looks up at him with that shocking gaze that never fails to make his heart race. His fingers clench at Dean’s hips, head tilting against the pillow. Reverently, with the faintest unbidden desire, Castiel says, “Then let me in.”

And with every intention, with all the purpose inside of him, Dean shows Castiel where he wants him— Propped up against the headboard, eyes locked together, and Dean shows him those three words, slipping back onto Castiel’s waiting cock, chest stuttering as that symphony only they can make together races through him. His veins are pumping blood throughout every inch of him, and he feels every drag of skin, every centimeter in which he glides down, slowly, memorizing this moment.

Castiel has purpose within him, too, though, and he looks aching as his lips part and he too breaths in a rapturing breath, staring down at where he enters Dean. That dangerous glint flashes up to Dean’s face, and the barest laugh escapes him.

“Wanna remember,” Dean explains headingly, pressing his palm to the center of Castiel’s chest, and then above a beating heart.

“You don’t have to remember.” Castiel leaves it at that simple phrase, giving Dean the chance to think over it, and thrusts up into him, fingers playing at the back of his neck.

Choking up from the thrill, pleasure dancing through every nerve, Dean lets a gasp leave him, and it feels _so_ good, so perfect.

How could he ever forget this?

Dean starts to roll his hips, and Castiel joins in with matching thrusts, until they find the right angle and Dean is letting their chests touch as his prostate is suddenly nailed, over and over. It’s another pleasant, gulping for air surprise when Castiel fists Dean’s cock, and he’s done for.

He paints Castiel’s chest with ropes of come, buzzing underneath his skin, and a long stuttering breath leaves him slowly.

Dean shakes through his orgasm as Castiel slams him down over his cock rapidly, moaning deep in his throat, until finally he’s coming too, face lighting up as if he can’t believe such a thing can exist, and he’s back to kissing Dean’s throat.

Purpose makes its stride again as Castiel rolls Dean under the covers, clean and baby soft with the touch of a simple finger. He joins him, and his fingers tickle across Dean’s face, drawing incoherent shapes across the bridge of his nose and each eyelid.

As Dean drifts to sleep, his thoughts are sleepy sweet with grace and the love Castiel pours across his shoulders, as if he truly deserves it. But, in the end, even if he can’t _say_ his purpose when it comes to the endearing angel that has captured his soul, Dean can always _show_ his purpose through everything else.

That’s certainly a purpose worth pursuing.

**Author's Note:**

> I always intend to go for kinky, but in the end, I’m an emotional slut who can’t get away from the delicacy that this beautiful ship offers.
> 
> (except my summary could be taken as a super kinky metaphor...?  
> Did I succeed for once?)
> 
>  
> 
> *sobs*
> 
> Btw, wHO ELSE THOUGHT SCOOBYNATURAL WAS FUCKING AMAZING *more sobbing*  
> Needed some more gay but we good ( no, please, help)


End file.
